


In the Beginning

by holmespluswatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmespluswatson/pseuds/holmespluswatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets mad. Castiel does his thing. John understands everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Strange Meeting

"You know what you are? Bloody heartless!" John Watson said as he stomped inside 221B, tossing his coat onto his armchair and glaring at Sherlock Holmes who had come in just before him.

"I don't need a heart. Last I checked, hearts did not assist you in solving cases," Sherlock replied, keeping his own coat on and slowly sinking into his chair.

"No. No, they don't. They assist you in being bloody human. Which you are not. You are not human. I don't know what you are, except maybe a cold-hearted monster. A machine. Yea. That's all you are...A machine."

"Well pardon me for not living up to your expectations of being human. I don't care what you think of me. I don't care what anyone else thinks of me. And I don't care about people dying."

"A girl, Sherlock! A little, ten year old _girl!_ How...How can you _not_ care?!"

John glared at Sherlock, who was now sitting silently, hands steepled under his chin, and those colourful eyes of his not daring to drop John's gaze.

"I've learned not to," came Sherlock's feeble reply after a moment of silence.

John simply stared at Sherlock for a moment, hand raised and finger pointing at him threateningly, but he said nothing. How could he? 'I've learned not to'? What sort of bloody excuse was that?"

"You listen to me," John said finally, still pointing at the consulting detective. "You. Are...A machine. An uncaring stone statue." His lips twitched up into a disbelieving smile. "And I won't stand it. You can find another person to share the rent with. Like Irene. Go find Irene in America. You two are perfect. Heartless bitches, the both of you. You'll do fine. Bring her on cases with you. She can be your new pet. Because that's all you want me for, isn't it?"

John's hand lowered to his side, his smile widening but his normally soft and warm eyes as cold as ice. "I'm just the person that follows you around and compliments you, yeah? Call you nice things no one else does. Know why? Because I thought, maybe, you know, given some time, you could, oh, I dunno, we could be friends or something ridiculous like that. Because I thought you were brilliant. Silly of me, I know. Should've known. You don't care. Caring is a disadvantage, yeah? Right. Well. Bye, then. You can keep my stuff. Experiment on it or whatever it is you do for fun besides watching people die."

John stood slightly awkwardly in front of the door he had been standing before, coat in hand and staring down at the ground as if going over what he had just said. He hadn't really meant to say all of that. It was just...Sherlock was so...John was done. That was all. The adventure was great, but he was done with Sherlock's stupid heartlessness and all his bloody annoying antics. Done. That was that. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, during John's little speech, said nothing, did nothing, only watched. Interested to know if John would really do it. Really leave him. Sherlock didn't think he would, though. John was too addicted with the adventure that came with living with him.  

Though Sherlock didn't like to admit it, he needed John. Just as much as John needed Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock didn't have a heart (at least not the metaphorical one), but John did. John was the one who cared for the people they helped. The victims. Sherlock was the one who saved the day, and John was the one who saved the person. What would he do without him? John _was_ his heart. He cared about things more when John was around. Not a lot more, but more all the same. Yes, Sherlock didn't really care about people. Except John. Yes, Sherlock had no friends. Except John. It was always except John. And should John really leave him...Sherlock honestly wouldn't know what to do with himself.

John, however, did not know this. John was mad as hell. And he was dead serious about leaving, something that was made obvious when he nodded in Sherlock's direction with a bit of a grunt, opened the door, and stepped out, lightly slamming the door behind him. 

"Oh, you two having a bit of a domestic again?" Mrs Hudson called from the bottom of the stairs, having stepped out of her flat at the sound of John's yelling.

"Goodbye, Mrs Hudson," John said curtly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of notes, not even sure how much it was and not caring, and shoving them into Mrs Hudson's hands. "I'm leaving. Sherlock can afford to pay the rest, I'm sure."

"Oh, but, John, you can't mean that," Mrs Hudson said worriedly. John was the only one who put up with Sherlock besides herself. And that detective inspector fellow and Molly (bless her soul). What would she do without someone to share tea with while Sherlock was away, laughing at the detective's ridiculous attachment to that skull of his together and other strange quirks he had?

"Oh, but I do," John said, that dangerous smile of his reappearing once again.

"What will Sherlock do without you, dear? He's much better with you here, really," Mrs Hudson objected, looking up at John with a sad expression.

"No. No, he's not. If this is better, I'd hate to see what he used to be like," John said as he slipped into his coat. "As I said, goodbye. Sherlock will do just fine without me. He got around just fine before. He doesn't need me. Or want me around, apparently. I'm just a nuisance anyway. See you 'round, Mrs Hudson. Ta." And with that, he turned, opening the door and slamming it so hard it made Mrs Hudson jump and shout and Sherlock wince from upstairs. 

"Bloody cocky prick," John grumbled to himself as he stomped off, not bothering to think about where he'd stay now. That wasn't important. He'd find someplace. Maybe he'd even go see if Sarah would take him in again. Just for a little while. He didn't care right then. All he cared about was getting as far away from Sherlock Holmes as he could. How could he not care? A girl had _died._ An innocent, sweet, little girl who did not deserve to die. Especially not because Sherlock was too bloody slow for the murderer. Who they had still not caught. No, not they. He. There was no they anymore. It was just Sherlock. It was his fault the girl had died. John had no part in this anymore. No part in cases, no part in murders and psychopath killers, and no part in Sherlock Holmes. 

How had he even gotten like that? He'd said he'd learned not to care. What even did that mean? He used to care? But...something happened? What happened? What could have possibly happened to Sherlock that turned him into this...heartless monster?

John suddenly stopped walking, realizing that he had no idea where he was going. 

He looked around, cursing under his breath. He had no idea where he was. Of course. If Sherlock had been there, he would've figured out a way to get home in under five minutes using pathways that led through people's houses and--No, there was no more Sherlock and Baker Street was not his home.

Well, now what? Pub. He could go to a pub. He needed to go to a pub. He needed a break. To forget the screams of the girl he'd watched get shot at just because Sherlock's oh-so-brilliant mind hadn't been able to think up an answer to the murderer's sick games soon enough. Because Sherlock, as much as he hated to admit it, was a human who sometimes didn't know the answer. He wasn't the god he wanted everyone to think he was. And John was just now realizing that. Sadly.

John shoved his hands into his coat pockets, walking through whatever dark street he was on and passing some sort of antiques shop with a bunch of old radios on display.

Suddenly, one of the radios turned on, blasting some 80's song John thought sounded vaguely familiar to him.

He jumped at the sound, pausing and turning to look at the radio. That was...weird. Cautiously, John approached the shop window, peering inside for the owner or anyone else who might have turned the radio on. But he saw no one.

Shrugging, John turned and started to leave, except just then the street lights started to flicker.

John gazed up at the street light, wondering what the hell was going on, when, all of a sudden, all the other radios turned on all at once, mostly static, and made John's brow furrow as he slowly turned back to face the shop window. 

With the loud static of the radio, flickering of the street lights, and darkness of the street, had John not spent the last two years with Sherlock, he would have been downright spooked. But hanging out for Sherlock Holmes prepared you for anything.

"Hello...?" John called hesitantly, looking around for anyone who could be doing this and cursing himself for leaving his gun back at the flat. He'd have to go back and get it sometime. 

But no one was there. At all, actually. No pedestrians, no cars...weird.

Even though no one was around, John couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, and his anger towards Sherlock was momentarily forgotten in his confusion.

After a short while of staring into the shop window, however, John decided to label this incident as a freak thing and shake it off. Which he attempted to do. Until he turned the street corner and jumped for the third time that night at the sight of the man suddenly before him. Where had _he_ come from? 

"Er, just passing through, ta," John said somewhat awkwardly as he edged around the man who was doing nothing but staring at him. He didn't like it. It was creepy, to be frank.

Just when John thought he had gotten away from whatever twilight zone he'd managed to wander into back there, the man suddenly appeared again, right in front of him, and John could have sworn he had not been there a second ago.

John decided to take this opportunity to get a good look at him, secretly wishing Sherlock was there to deduct the stranger and figure out his purpose for randomly appearing like that was.

The man was...tall. Nearly six feet. His messy brown hair and light stubble made John wonder when the last time he'd gotten properly cleaned up was. Or maybe the stranger just liked the hobo look. He wore a tan trench coat, his blue tie slightly askew. And...that was just about all John could gather.

"...Can I help you?" John asked, hoping this wasn't another psychopath murderer that had stalked him from 221B.

"No," the man simply said, tilting his head slightly and narrowing his eyes as he looked John over.

There was a small moment of silence as John waited for the man to say something else, but he didn't, and John was left to say, "Okay...Do we know each other?"

The man's answer was the same as before. "No."

John frowned. Alright. That was enough of that.

"Who are you and what do you want from me? Money? Don't have any, sorry. Information on Sherlock? Well, I'm afraid I haven't got that either. Except that he's a massive dick. Will that be all?"

"No, there's nothing I want from you," the man replied, straightening his head but keeping his eyes suspiciously narrowed. "My name is Castiel. And I am an angel of the Lord."

John snorted at this, crossing his arms and shifting on his feet. "Yeah, alright. You're drunk. Go home. I've got to be on my way."

John started to walk away, but he stopped, looking over his shoulder to tell this Castiel person to stop following him. But he was nowhere to be seen.

John involuntarily shivered (alright, _now_ he was creeped out) and rolled his eyes at himself, looking back in front of him, his jaw dropping at what he saw.


	2. A Child is Born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes back in time, thanks to Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shut up, I know I suck at naming chapters. I try. Anyway, I certainly hope my French is right. I just mostly used google translate but also I applied my two semesters of French and it seemed right enough.

"Oh, mon Dieu. Elle est une salope. Oh bien. Qui a besoin d'entraîneurs personnels?"

"Hé, James, avez-vous acheté le dîner pour ce soir? Nous avons besoin de quelque chose, vous savez..."

French. He was surrounded by French. In a park. In daytime. What the...bloody...hell...?

John blinked once or twice, turning full circle and finding himself in a sunny, grassy, busy...park. How the hell had he gotten there? And where was he? France was his first guess, but how could he have somehow gotten in the middle of bloody France? He'd just been in London. At night. But...now he wasn't.

"You don't want to see an angel drunk."

John spun around and saw Castiel once again and nearly punched him. But that probably wouldn't have helped his situation much.

"Alright, who the hell are you, really, and what am I doing here? France? Is this France? Why the bloody hell am I in a park in daytime in France?" John demanded, glaring furiously at Castiel.

"You wanted to know," Castiel answered, gesturing to the park around them.

"Wanted. To know. _What?_ " John asked through his teeth. He'd had enough of this.

"I told you: I'm an angel of the Lord. Time is nothing to angels. Without much difficulty, we can bend it. You wanted to know what happened to your friend, Sherlock Holmes. Well, now you can find out. There he is. Right there." Castiel pointed behind John, who turned and saw nothing besides a family having a bit of a picnic. No dark coated detective.

"That's not Sherlock," John said, looking back to Castiel. "That's a family. You're crazy. Get me back to London. Now."

Castiel smiled a bit and John decided he did not like his smile in the slightest. "Go take a closer look and you will see. But remember; you can't change him. Only become a part of him."

John scowled and turned, looking at the family once again and still seeing no Sherlock. It was just a nice, happy family.

Sitting under a large, shady tree sat a young blond woman cradling a baby and watching a young brunet man playing ball with a boy of about seven or eight with short ginger hair. No Sherlock to be seen.

When John looked back to Castiel he was gone and John muttered a curse under his breath. Great. Now he was stuck. Might as well go see if he could figure out who the bloody family was that this Castiel/angel/drunkard wanted him to talk to.

John walked over to them, trying his best to be as inconspicuous as he could, and smiled pleasantly (though it was a bit forced) when the woman looked over to him.

"Oh, salut! Belle journée, n'est-ce pas?" She said, grinning and nodding to John before looking down at the baby in her hands.

Her eyes looked strangely familiar, but John couldn't remember where he'd seen them before.

Suddenly realizing that he didn't know a lick of French, John said awkwardly, "Don't suppose you know much English?"

"Oh, British," the woman said with a heavy French accent, looking back up at John. "Yes, 'ello. 'aven't spoken English in a long time. I 'ope I don't mess it up terribly...How do you do? I am Violet. And you?"

"John," he said quickly, hesitating a moment before sitting beside her on the grass. "Yeah, I'm British. But you're doing fine. Nice to meet you, Violet. Er, who's the little one?" He nodded towards the baby as he heard the young man and boy coming over.

"Thees ees William," she said, kissing the baby's forehead as the ginger-haired boy came and sat at her side, looking to John with a frown and sitting over the baby nearly defensively.

There. William. For a minute there, John had actually thought that maybe...somehow...he'd gone...back in time?

"And thees ees Myc," Violet said, gesturing to the ginger boy who scowled at the sound of his own name, something John found a little strange.

"He doesn't like his nickname, dear," the young man said with a chuckle, his English not quite as heavily accented as Violet's was. "I'm Siger, and it's Mycroft, actually. Not Myc."

John's eyes widened and he looked to the young man, mouth dropping open in shock, and then to the boy. "He's-you mean-this is... _Mycroft? Holmes?_ "

"How do you know my last name?" Mycroft asked with a frown, moving so he was closer to his mother and scanning John with eyes that looked far too old and knowing for such a little boy.

"Oh, er..." Shit. "I work at the primary school...?" John said, perhaps too hopefully.

"Oh, zat place," Violet said with a chuckle. "Yes, he is a bit infamous zere, aren't you, Myc?"

"Right. Well, I've heard a lot about him there," John said, relieved. "And, er, William, here. What's his full name, if I may ask?"

"William Sherlock Scott 'olmes," Violet said lovingly, smiling down at the baby.

John almost laughed out loud, too shocked and confused and intrigued by whatever had managed to get him there, in the bloody past, to know how to react. It was just...There was Sherlock. Little...baby...Sherlock. How? How was that possible?

"He's...certainly a, ah, cute one," John said, slowly grinning despite himself, his hatred toward Sherlock long forgotten. "Would you...let me hold him for a minute?"

After just a moment of hesitation, Violet nodded and ever-so-gently handed Sherlock over to John, who held him with more care than he'd ever held anything before.

Though he hadn't been able to see much at first, there was certainly a resemblance, the strange multi-coloured eyes and tiny bowed lips...Although John was surprised to find that his dark hair wasn't dark at all. It was quite pale. A pale blond. John couldn't imagine a Sherlock with blond hair, but his mum had very blond hair, so he shouldn't have been that surprised, really.

Sherlock smiled up at him, eyes staring into John's, unblinking.

John's smile widened as he looked down at Sherlock and he hardly noticed when Mycroft climbed over his mother to get to his little brother, obviously protective of him.

"What do you want to carry William for?" Mycroft asked, snapping John out of whatever strange daze he'd been in.

"Oh. Dunno. Just like kids, I guess," John said, carefully giving Sherlock back to his mother and feeling his cheeks flush slightly.

He was holding Sherlock bloody Holmes and talking with his family. In France. In the past? How was that even possible? It was just too weird. If Castiel had been trying to show John how Sherlock had gone from a frankly adorable baby to a cold-hearted bastard, John wasn't getting it.

"Well, anyway, I think it's about time we head back home, isn't it?" Mr. Holmes said, standing and helping Mrs. Holmes up as well. "Come on, then, Mycroft."

"Oh, right. I should go too," John said, standing up as well, though he had no idea where he would being going to, seeing as he was stuck in the past. "Sorry, thanks. It was nice seeing you. Really. Your children are...They're wonderful."

It wasn't until after John had said it that he realized he probably sounded like a weird pedophile and he flashed a quick smile before turning and hurrying off, head ducked and hoping he hadn't seemed too suspicious.


End file.
